Not by Sight
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY All of his life he had tried to keep the faith, succeeding and failing as was the fate of all humans. But now she had asked the only question that really mattered: Do you have faith?


I started this as a post-ep for "In God We Trust," originally intending it to be a light moment between Jed and Abbey, but it became something much deeper. (Not so deep – Jed's choice of underwear was inspired by Martin's encounter with Ellen DeGeneres.) Hope you like it!

**Not by Sight**

**A _West Wing_ Story**

by MAHC

POV: Jed

Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals;" "Posse Comitatus;" "War Crimes;" "In God We Trust"

Rating: Teen (PG)

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.

"_For we walk by faith, not by sight."_

_2 Corinthians 5:7_

Jed Bartlet limped through the hallway of the residence, leaning a little heavier on the cane than he had that morning. Long day. Long year, come to think of it. He licked his lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of ice cream. He had definitely indulged a little too much, and he wondered when Abbey would find out about his little 31-flavor fest with Arnie Vinick. Because it was not a matter of if – just when. Telling himself it was all in the spirit of bipartisanship mattered little; Abbey would no doubt disagree with his justification.

As he approached the bedroom door, he straightened, caught the cane up in his hand so it seemed as if he was just carrying it. Ego, he chided himself. Pride. Machismo. It was immature and ridiculous.

He did it anyway.

Bracing against the discomfort as he planted his leg to take the weight without the accustomed assistance, he reached for the knob and entered, forcing his gait to be as natural as he could. She rose instantly, her eyes sweeping him in one move, and he knew his façade didn't fool her. Still, she refrained from commenting on it as she drew closer.

"Hey, Babe."

Her kiss didn't surprise him. It was a habit for both of them to greet each other that way as they came together at the end of their respective days. Had been for 37 years. Sometimes the kiss was brief, hurried. Sometimes soft, loving. Other times, lingering, heated, a starting gun for an evening of seduction.

Tonight, he expected the first type. It was late; he had wrestled with democrats as well as republicans all day. She would not-so-subtly suggest he needed to get a good night's sleep, and he would acquiesce, tossing and turning until his body finally succumbed from sheer boredom.

But as soon as his lips brushed hers, ready to move on after the perfunctory kiss, she placed her hand behind his neck and held him there as her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue slipped in and played with his, her body molded to his.

His recovery was rapid. He had always been a quick study. Letting the cane drop – and not giving a damn where it landed – he slid his arms around her waist and tugged her tighter against him, moving his mouth on hers until they both were forced to pull away just to suck in some oxygen.

"So, is that a banana split in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" she asked, eyes teasing and accusing at once.

Ah. So she had ulterior motives.

"How did you know?" No need to deny the obvious.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. "Besides the fact that you taste like pistachio?"

"I'd rather taste like you," he returned, hoping to distract her with the suggestion that burned from his eyes.

The raised brow showed that his ploy had worked, at least a little. "Ooo, you're feisty tonight."

"You like feisty, right?"

"I like it when I'M feisty."

He grinned. "Me, too."

"So, how much ice cream did you eat?"

Certainly no more than a quart or so, he figured, between the pistachio and butter pecan. Trying to sound more nonchalant than defensive, he explained, "I was negotiating with Vinick for the minimum wage amendment to the debt ceiling bill." So that makes it okay, right?

Her cocked brow left no doubt about her opinion of his dubious statement. "Uh huh. You want me to believe that the success of legislation hung on the quality of your Rocky Road?"

Before he could produce a viable protest, he saw the gleam in her eye, the slant to her jaw. "Well, it was touch and go until I brought out the mint chocolate chip."

Laughing, she kissed him again and reached up to loosen his tie. "How'd it end up?"

He shrugged. "We'll drop the amendment. He'll get a new minimum wage bill passed."

One hand slipped the tie from his collar as the other worked on the vest buttons. "He has the votes?"

"He has the votes."

"So, he liked the Rocky Road, then?" When the vest hung open, her fingers took the liberty of sliding down his chest and freeing the first three buttons of his dress shirt.

"I think it was actually the coffee flavor that did it," he said, shifting. The abrupt change sent a shard of pain through his thigh, and he cursed silently when his body betrayed him with an involuntary grunt.

"How's your leg?"

Three guesses. Damn it.

She was trying not to coddle; he saw it in the plastic smile, but she couldn't ignore the elephant in the room any longer. He was surprised she had waited this long.

Still, he wasn't quite ready to admit anything. "Okay." A cough masked another grunt as he stepped away.

"Still hurt?" Okay, maybe not really masked.

Only when I walk. Or sit. Or lie down. "It's fine."

"Jed – "

He swung around and gave her a warning glare, but lost it as soon as he saw the compassion in her eyes. And that's what it was: compassion, not pity. Never pity – with Abbey, anyway.

His expression conceded at least some truth. "It's a little stiff."

Now her eyes softened, maybe because she had gotten his confession out. Maybe because she truly empathized with him. Maybe because she saw a way she could help, when so often he knew she felt impotent to do anything about a disease that baffled even a doctor of her skills and talents.

"Why don't you get undressed and I'll rub it for you?" she suggested, voice thickening seductively. Now there was an idea.

"My leg?" he clarified with a leer, relieved with the switch in tone.

Her lips pursed, unable to hide her pleasure at his response. "For starters."

Ah yes. For starters.

Five minutes later, he was stretched out on the bed, stripped to the black boxer-briefs he had recently taken to wearing, face down so she could massage the betraying limb. Cool air whispered across his skin, eager to feel her touch as she dribbled scented oil over his calf. But the first firm squeeze shot pain up to his hip, and an involuntary gasp exploded from his lungs.

"Babe?"

Shit. "It's okay," he assured her tightly. "It'll get better." It usually did, right? Why should this time be any different? Except – an evil voice reminded him from the recesses of his memory – that MS was always different.

"Okay," she accepted, but her touch lightened perceptively.

Warm fingers slid over his calf, kneading the cramped muscles, the slick oil swirling the golden hair first in one direction, then another. "I've always liked your legs," she murmured.

"I've always liked yours," he returned.

An understatement. She had killer legs. When she strutted down the street, short skirt tight, three-inch heels – Oh yes. When she sat, crossing one over the other – Oh man. When she wrapped them around his waist – Oh God! The mental images drew a smile to his lips, and he felt a familiar tightening in his groin and instinctively pressed his pelvis into the bed.

Despite the pain, this evening definitely had potential. Slowly, he began to allow himself to relax, to sink into a mental fuzz of blurred thoughts that cushioned the sharper facts. Her hands drew the cold invader out, replaced the void with warmth, softness, comfort. He thought a couple of times that he felt her lips slide across the muscles of his back, her tongue lick playfully at his neck.

"What do you think of Vinick?"

Vinick? Vinick who?

"Jed?"

Fighting not to come out of his delicious haze, he heard his own words slur, slip from his lips reluctantly. "Um – S'arright. Has good points, bad points."

"What are the good points?" Her hands moved to his left leg, even though he hadn't had as much trouble with it. She would be thorough tonight. He liked it when she was thorough. He didn't like it when she talked about republican nominees while he was trying to float off into a pseudo-coma.

Rousing himself just enough to answer with relative coherence, he muttered, "Likeable, humble, intelligent, shrewd."

"Bad?"

He let out a quick breath, an ironic laugh. "Likeable, humble, intelligent, shrewd." Now, forget what's-his-name and let's get back to more important stuff.

"Okay." She shifted back to the right leg, pushing up toward his thigh, pressing her fingers into the tight hamstring.

The pop of pain slapped away any remaining haze. "Damn it, Abbey! That hurts!"

He was awake now.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"Vinick?" she prompted after a moment.

Through gritted teeth, he explained, "He can use all of those qualities – uh – to get the right thing done or – ow – the wrong thing done. Depends."

He couldn't help but notice that her hands had shifted higher, brushing over his hip every other stroke. Clearly, she was going to be attentive tonight. Not that she hadn't been recently. In fact, their recreational moments had become more frequent since that air-clearing confrontation in the Oval Office on Valentines Day. He figured it was her way to entice him to take a break and rest. So far, it had proven to be quite a successful plan.

Her hands pushed against his muscles, pressing his hips harder into the bed. He stifled a groan as his growing arousal thrust into the firm mattress, and as usual, he issued up a thanks to Heaven for that continued ability.

"You like him?"

Who? "Hmm?"

"Vinick. You like him?"

Why the hell was she still talking about Vinick? "As a Republican, no," he said, sighing and surrendering to the inevitable conversation, hoping that if he responded occasionally, she would keep rubbing.

"As a man?"

He took a breath. "Yeah." He was a likeable enough fellow. That's what made him dangerous.

Skilled hands pressed deep into reluctant muscle, stretched tight over tanned skin. "What did you two talk about so long in the kitchen? Surely not the minimum wage."

Since it seemed they were doomed to discuss this, he threw more of his mental energy into his responses. The unexpected conversation that he held with the senator as they propped on the kitchen stools came back to him. "No. The Bible mostly. Faith."

Her fingers scraped over his shoulders, just enough to draw a shiver. "His or yours?"

"Both. His is – well, we talked about both."

"Are the stories accurate? He doesn't believe?"

He wondered if he would be breaking a trust to Vinick, but didn't remember any kind of secrecy vow. And this was Abbey. "He has doubts. I talked to him, but – I didn't want to push."

"You think it will hurt him?"

If Russell wants it to. "Dunno. He wondered if voters need to know if he goes to church."

"Do they?"

"I told him I didn't need to know, but that I wasn't voting for him anyway."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Still making up my mind."

"I also told him it's not up to us to decide what the voters get to use in evaluating us."

"Yeah?"

Ruefully, he added, "He thought that was a little odd, coming from someone who wasn't completely open about his health."

He supposed he would be dealing with that the rest of his life. Of course, he had accepted that the same night he accepted the censure. Her fingers gripped him a little harder, and he smiled. She could berate him. She could scold. But let anyone else try it and they would face the formidable wrath of Abigail Bartlet.

"What did you say?" she finally asked carefully.

"That it was a big mistake."

A long pause. "Yeah."

Maybe his next revelation would make her feel better. He wasn't sure if it did him or not. "But then he asked if it actually was. Surprised the hell out of me. He practically defended my not being forthright. Said we didn't know about Lincoln's health, or Washington's, or Jefferson's. Or FDR's for that matter. Said people weren't sorry they voted for FDR even though he died in office."

She remained quiet for a moment, then asked, "Republican not withstanding, Jed, is he the right man?"

He couldn't answer. His political instincts told him no, but his personal feelings warred with them. "I don't know." Truthful. "With Russell the alternative – "

"Yeah."

"I think his wife's death stole what faith he had," Jed offered.

"Times like that are when we need our faith the most."

He certainly couldn't dispute that, but he wasn't going to judge, either, not after his own struggles.

"My God," Abbey continued, pressing her palms into his shoulders, "look what you've gone through. Your faith has most definitely been tested, and you've kept it."

A sad, tender smile curved his lips. "There are times – "

"For all of us," she agreed. "But you've never given up, never turned away from God."

Never?

_Crutiatus in crucem._

The moment came back to him, not that it was ever far away. The sickeningly sweet smell of funeral sprays. The harsh echo of solemn footsteps on cold marble. The acrid scent of nicotine burned by his own hand in forbidden halls.

A moment of separation. A moment of breaking. A moment of turning away.

_Haec credam a deo pio, a deo justo, a deo scito?_

_Crutiatus in crucem._

_Eas in crucem._

He knew the Lord had forgiven him that transgression. Penance had been sought and bestowed, as promised. But God was the only one who could forgive and forget. Humans possess only the capability to forgive. The memory hung on. So, Jed Bartlet could not forget.

"There are times," he repeated, voice barely a whisper.

"I've never doubted your faith, Jed," she assured him with gentle conviction, sliding her hand up to caress the hair at the nape of his neck.

He sighed. "Wish I could say that."

She didn't respond – couldn't respond, he realize and almost laughed. It was rare that he could truly surprise her anymore.

"When?" she asked softly, bending over him, her hands forgetting to rub.

Oh hell. "Doesn't matter." He'd gotten in way too deep, tried to scramble back out.

"It does."

"The National Cathedral." In his administration, he had visited that grand edifice many times, but he didn't need to clarify. She knew the moment he meant.

"Delores' funeral."

He nodded, the same gut-kicking nausea sweeping over him each time he went back there. "Afterwards, when you and Leo had gone outside, I – had a talk – with Him."

"What about?"

What about? Where should he start? A rant to the Almighty. A tantrum to the Master. Delores. Josh. A tender ship. Disillusionment. Anger. Despair. "About betrayal, faults, faith – or lack of."

_Eas in crucem._

"His faith in you, or your faith in Him?" she wondered.

"I don't know." Truth. "Both, maybe?"

"Is that why?"

"Is that why what?"

"That time after church – after the homily on Ephesians."

Frowning, he shifted to lie on his right side so he could look at her. "I don't know what you are – "

"You said it sucked and I scolded you and you said, 'Like I'm not already going to hell.'"

Ah. "I was joking – "

"I don't think so."

"Abbey – "

"You said you were going to hell. This is why?"

He propped on one elbow and tilted his head. No need to deny it now. "This – and now – other things." Please don't go there. You really don't want to go there.

"What other things?"

Another moment returned, the majesty of a glorious performance torn by the brutal image of bullets riddling human flesh.

_And victorious in war shall be made glorious in peace._

It was quite possible he might throw up. "Doesn't matter." The pain of that memory still cut deep, still sliced through his soul, still haunted his dreams.

_It's just wrong._

_It's absolutely wrong._

_Take him._

"It does, Jed. You can't move past something until you've dealt with it."

Stiffening beneath her still hands, he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to her. "James Joyce wrote that there is a faith still stronger than the faith of the disciple in his master."

Her silence prompted him to continue.

"The faith of a master in the disciple who will betray him."

Abbey slid a hand over his shoulder. "When have you betrayed God, Jed?"

He smiled ruefully. "Every day."

"I mean – "

"It doesn't matter," he repeated, realizing he very much wanted to get out of this conversation. They had been well on their way to sex, for Pete's sake, and now he was bogged down in a quagmire of guilt. How the hell had that happened?

Bracing his hands on the mattress, he dropped his weight onto his legs and stood, pleased that the pain he had felt earlier had faded to mere twinges. Those he could manage.

"It does matter," Abbey insisted, standing with him, the hand that had rested on his shoulder moving up to draw his chin around so he looked at her. "It will just fester, eat away at you and – "

She stopped, face pale, eyes wide with realization, fingers jerking away as if she couldn't bear to touch his skin anymore. "Shareef," she breathed, the word cracking like the vilest oath.

He swallowed, turned away, still unable after four years, to look her in the eye about the murder he committed, the order he had given that came so close to destroying their daughter, their marriage, their lives. He had betrayed God. He had betrayed Abbey. He had betrayed Zoey. He had betrayed himself. Pain clawed at his heart, ripped at his stomach, and he cursed the hot tears that stung his eyes.

She remained silent, which he supposed was preferable to the alternative blame he deserved. She was human, too. She had forgiven but not forgotten – would never forget. Neither of them would – or could forget.

He didn't speak, either. There was nothing to say, nothing at all. Nothing that would change the fact that he ordered another human being killed. Nothing that would turn back time and keep Zoey safe. Nothing that would remove the five months of torturous separation from Abbey.

But it came to him that there was something to say, and that he had said it years ago to a merciful God: Forgive me. It was all that could be said, and was all that needed to be said – at least to the Almighty. God had forgiven him. Abbey had forgiven him. Zoey had forgiven him.

Maybe one day he could forgive himself.

"Jed?" Soft. Tentative.

With a heavy breath, he let his body turn toward her, ready for the accusation in her eyes, knowing he deserved it, willing to accept it, yet again.

But to his surprise her bright eyes and trembling lips carried no reproach. "Do you still have faith, Jed?"

Do you still have faith?

He gave the question the depth it deserved. All of his life he had tried to keep the faith, succeeding and failing as was the fate of all humans. But now she had asked the only question that really mattered: Do you have faith?

And despite everything, he knew the answer without qualification.

"Yes," he answered, the conviction hitting him harder than it had in many years.

"In what?" she wanted to know.

Now his hand came up to cup her chin. "In God. In mankind." His lips brushed hers. "In you."

The tears brimmed in her eyes. "Even after Rosslyn. Even after – Zoey?"

"Especially after Rosslyn and Zoey."

She paused, lifted her chin from his touch. "Even with the MS?"

His brain noted the more prevalent effects of the disease on his body. Legs that ached at the end of the day, eyes that blurred after long meetings, fatigue that harassed even after a full night's sleep. Did he still have faith with the MS?

He nodded. "Yes."

Now her hand reached up to stroke his jaw. "You don't know what's ahead."

"For we walk by faith, not by sight."

Her lips followed her fingers, brushed gently against his cheek. "We do, indeed."

"Abbey?"

"Yes?"

"I love you." The swell of emotion almost stole the words from him. He had said them innumerable times over the past 38 years, never once uttering it in a flippant way. Tonight, though, he hoped the true depth of that statement was evident.

The choked response indicated it was. "I love you, too, Josiah."

Ah, not even Jethro this time.

"And I have faith in you," she continued. "Remember what I told you on election night?"

He did.

"You have lots of nights."

How could he forget?

"There's so much ahead for us, Jed. You still have lots of nights." She held his face in both hands, now.

"Is tonight one of them?"

Her eyes grew smoky. "You want it to be?"

His gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts and he felt the responding pulse against the snug underwear. "Oh, yeah."

"Me, too."

"I haven't finished that massage," she whispered, leaning into him and using the oil still on her hands to slide them down his body.

"I noticed that."

"Yeah?" Her gaze fell to his groin. "I noticed something, too."

"Hard not to," he admitted.

Slender fingers curled around the now-prominent protrusion. "Yes, very hard."

With a gentle push, she urged him back to the bed, climbing on top and straddling him so that she could grind intimately against him. He groaned, forgetting about ice cream, and Vinick, and MS, and even – for a brief moment – Shareef.

All thoughts focused on Abbey, on the way her skin burned against his, on her intoxicating scent that tugged at his loins, on the damp evidence of how much he excited her, on the pulsing heat of her center as he slowly sank inside, on her sensuous moans that protested his withdrawal and her gasps of pleasure that greeted his return.

They were both so caught up in the desire, it took both of them a moment to hear the knock. At first, it was buried under their heavy breathing and groans, but their intruder grew more persistent and the raps became louder.

He opened his mouth to throw out a frustrated curse, but Abbey beat him to it. "Damn it!"

He added his own bit of profanity as she pulled away, leaving him throbbing and trembling and closer to climax than he had realized. In fact, it took a concerted effort not to lose control when she gave him a conciliatory caress as she rose.

At least, he thought, when they moved back to New Hampshire, no one would be interrupting their rare intimate moments – or if they did, they would probably be family members and could be yelled at with more fervor.

"What?" Abbey called, her tone leaving no doubt to her attitude about someone sabotaging their moment. Almost as an afterthought, she shrugged into the discarded shirt he had dropped on the floor earlier.

Still fighting his body's impulses, he scrambled into his own robe as C.J. Cregg eased into the room. Despite his irritation, he smiled at the tentative movement, knowing she had hoped not to catch a glimpse of her First Couple in a compromising entanglement. He knew from experience.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mister President, but – "

"No bother, C.J. Abbey was giving me a sensual massage in preparation for a heated sexual encounter. We're happy to be interrupted."

She stared at them, taking in their attire, horror sweeping over her smooth face. It was almost worth being interrupted to see that expression. Almost. "Uh. Right. I'll just come back – "

"Jed!" His wife cuffed him on the shoulder, and motioned the chief-of-staff back into the room. "He's kidding," she assured C.J.

"Not really," he muttered.

"Really, sir, I can come back – "

"The mood's broken now, Miss Interruptus."

"Uh, well, it seems a little unimportant now – "

"C.J. – " Abbey's warning did the trick. Hurry up or get out.

"The Secretary-General of the United Nations has requested that you make an address to the main assembly."

He stared at her. Not that inviting the President of the United States was an unusual move for the international organization, but things like that usually went through the channels. He supposed it had to do with the Middle East agreement and the China talks. "Check with Debbie about my schedule," he instructed, a little surprised C.J. hadn't already done so. "Things are rather hectic now with the election and – "

"Sir?" Her tone stopped him.

"Yeah?"

"The request is not for right now."

Not for right now? Well, why didn't she just schedule it for whenever it was? "Okay. It'll probably just get busier, but tell him we'll look at the next few months."

"Mister President," C.J. said, voice tentative, "he wants you to address them next July."

Next July.

A year from then.

A year.

"When?" Abbey asked, stepped forward to lay a hand on his arm.

"Next July."

A year.

After he left office.

A year down the road in his life, in his career – in his disease.

His eyes fell to the carpet, to the legs that had begun to betray him, to the hands that had once before failed. How could he commit to something a year away? How could he promise something that might be impossible to deliver by then?

Surely no one expected him to –

His eyes skirted up to catch his chief of staff's gaze, anticipating uncertainly, pity. But in those expressive depths, he saw neither. He saw only pride, confidence, encouragement.

"The Secretary-General said he knew your schedule would be filling up. He wanted to get on the calendar early."

Breath catching at that blatant statement of certainty, he turned to look at his wife, any remaining trepidation shattered by her unwavering gift of complete love and support.

Suddenly, it didn't matter if anyone else expected him to do it. The Secretary-General of the UN expected it of him. These two people that he loved expected it of him. But most importantly, he expected it of himself.

_Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen._

Faith. Abbey had asked him if he still had it. Time to show her. Time to show them all.

Shoulders squared, eyes sharp, chin lifted, he twisted back to C.J. "Book it," he ordered, no waiver in his tone. "Tell the Secretary-General that I'd be honored."

The grin that crossed her lips was familiar, the smile of their early days in office, when they all reached for the stars. "Yes, sir, I will." Now she allowed a blush to color her cheeks. "And – I'm really sorry again to have interrupted your evening."

"That's all right, C.J. We have lots of nights." He turned to Abbey. "Isn't that right, Babe?"

Her eyes shone, her fingers entwined with his. "That's right," she agreed. "That's right."

With a nod, the chief of staff, slipped out quickly, leaving them alone once more. Jed eased his arms around Abbey's waist, pulling her body against his, touching his mouth to hers, savoring the passion that still burned between them.

For a moment before her lips trailed down his body and wiped everything else from his mind, he thought about the UN address, about the future. If he had lots of nights, he could claim the days, too.

Jed Bartlet would walk by faith. It was the only choice he had.

In the end, it was the only choice any of them had.

"_There is a faith still stranger than the faith of the disciple in his master…the faith of a master in the discipline who will betray him."_

_James Joyce_

_Exiles, Act I_

_1951_

"_Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."_

_Hebrews 11:1_


End file.
